Californian

The last time I was in Mexico, I warned my cigar loving father about secondhand smoke. "It's so bad for you" I told him. He looked at me with what I can only call adoring disgust. "You" he said disdainfully "have become a Californian".

He's right. Here is further proof that I’m a (Northern) Californian:

• I have forgotten how to cross a street. I put my foot on the pavement and fully expect cars to screech to a halt. In other parts of the world (like Mexico, Milan and even England) this could have fatal consequences.
• I order a latte for breakfast. Non fat. In Milan, baristas looked at us blankly.
• I say “Good morning! How are you today?” to complete strangers. In London, they almost had me committed.
• I expect produce to be bountiful, colorful, cheap and organic.
• I never ask "how is the weather?"
• I consider pressed jeans to be formal attire.
• Even in Italy, I missed tofu. (Don't knock it until you've tried my tofu lasagna.)
• Huevos rancheros for breakfast, sushi for lunch, Asian Fusion for dinner.
• I feel that "that's neither here nor there" and "it is what it is" actually contribute something to the discussion.
• I have become addicted to open space. I realized this after several weeks in Italy (driving through high mountains and narrow valleys) and a visit to London. We went to Kensington Park, to an area called The Pond, and I sat on a park bench entranced by the swath of sky. California skies are enormously wide and I love looking at the Pacific Ocean and the swirls of windswept clouds as we drive into the office.
  

I live in the most beautiful place in the world. California is home.